Lyonel took a deep breath and suppressed all the chaotic thoughts in his head.
His fingers tapped lightly against his knee twice, a habit he had developed while studying at the Citadel-whenever he needed to sort out his thoughts, he would unconsciously tap the tabletop. With no table before him now, he tapped his own knee instead, beat by beat, as though keeping time with his heartbeat.
"What happened to Prince Daemon?" Having accepted reality, he calmed down yet again, his voice as composed as if he were asking what was for breakfast.
Harwin's Adam's apple bobbed again. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
He opened his mouth again. Still nothing.
Watching him, Lyonel felt the fire inside him flare up once more, but he did not lash out. He merely fixed his cloudy yet still piercing eyes on his eldest son and waited for him to speak.
The room was so quiet that they could hear sparrows chirping outside the window, servants moving about in the next room, and Harwin's heavy breathing.
"His Highness..." Harwin finally squeezed out a few words, his voice so hoarse it hardly sounded like his own. "When he came charging out of 'Mysaria,' he ran straight into me."
Lyonel's fingers stopped.
"And then?"
"And then..." Harwin swallowed. Beads of sweat ran down the bridge of his nose and dripped onto the floor with barely audible sounds. "Then I knocked him down. The bucket spilled, too, and drenched him."
Lyonel closed his eyes.
He pictured the scene-Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, conqueror of the Stepstones, rider of Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, and younger brother of his dear friend Viserys, charging out of an inferno, wreathed in smoke, sparks still clinging to his clothes, the silver hair that marked his bloodline scorched black-only